


The Lark of Vernon

by AMarguerite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, F/M, Falling In Love, Families of Choice, btw France loses at Waterloo again, but what're you gonna do, grouse endlessly mostly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:33:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1259815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fantine finds work at the dragon breeding grounds of Vernon, with the help of General Georges Pontmercy and his dragon Hyacinthe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The initial ideas for this came from simplyirenic and cinead. I’ve hopefully avoided all the things cinead wrote about here: http://cinaed.tumblr.com/post/78143644801/simplyirenic-simplyirenic-no. A lot of the logistics of aviator training and policy comes from ideas worked out with tenlittlebullets, and vouksen was the first person to suggest a dragon Valjean. My very many thanks to Pip for beta-reading, as usual. I’m not sure who wrote the tumblr post months ago about Georges Pontmercy being mixed race, but if it was you, let me know and I will credit you!

On the long flight back from Paris to Vernon, Georges noticed Hyacinthe tiring. It was still a painful realization. With a Grand Chevalier one was so used to seeing such bulk, such mass, that it seemed impossible that anything could defeat so formidable a creature. But time and old injuries had killed many a formidable veteran, and had limited many more. Georges increasingly felt old injuries, not in pain, but in a stiff unpleasantness, an unhappy and sudden realization of his own mortality. He put a hand to Hyacinthe’s neck and with the other raised his speaking trumpet.

“My dear,” he called. “My leg is paining me. Perhaps we might land so I might stretch it.”

Hyacinthe immediately began the descent saying, with some relief, “Oh, of course Georges! How stupid of me not to have thought of it. To tell you the truth, the shattered ball under my wing joint has been bothering me again, and I would fain rest it before we flew the rest of the way to the breeding grounds.”

It was more than the ball under his wing joint from Mont-Palissel (Georges had also broken his arm from a ball in the same battle). It was the burns from a Kaslisk dragon during the invasion of Britain, it was splinters from  Arnay-Le-Duc and Austerlitz, it was the lingering damage of starvation rations and battles from the Russian campaign, it was the innumerable slashes and balls and burns and cuts from Waterloo. Georges looked at the scarred membranes of Hyacinthe’s wings. Hyacinthe had been mercilessly set upon at Waterloo. It sometimes pained Georges to think of how painful the flight to Paris must be. He ventured to approach the subject, but Hyacinthe cut him off with, “That is utter rot, Georges, and you know it! It is only eighty kilometers. I would fly eight hundred to see your hatchling. If it hadn’t been for Waterloo, he would have been my captain and you would be resting now with all your flowers."

Georges said something vague into Hyacinthe’s deaf ear, injured by the divine wind deployed at Waterloo.

Hyacinthe did not like to acknowledge the many wounds he had received in service of France and said in reply, “Yes, you are quite right, it is a pity we cannot get closer, but you can see him very well from your telescope and my eyes are not so bad that I cannot see him. A fine boy, he must be two or three centimeters taller than he was last week.”

As Georges made no reply, Hyacinthe hastily changed the subject, “We are quite near Monsieur Shang’s restaurant, are we not? Perhaps we may have our lunch there.”

They could now see the road. Georges called, “Yes-- it is but half a mile, we can walk the rest of the distance.”

The trees lining the avenues on each side seemed to rise to meet them. The road was mostly deserted, save for a farmer with a cart some meters distant, and a woman with a child. Georges always took care when landing; Grand Chevaliers had pale underbellies and it was near impossible to see them above. The lady below certainly didn’t. She continued on her slow path, pausing only to pick up her child.  

“Ware of the lady--”

“And the hatchling!” cried Hyachinthe, roused to good humor. “Oh it is so very newly out of the egg, pray let us stop and speak to it, Georges. I do so love hatchlings.”

Georges called out a warning to the lady below.

She looked up, unable to hear his words, only to make out the tones of his voice, and immediately ran out of the way, clutching her child to her chest.

“We mean you no harm!” cried Georges, once they had landed. He unhooked his carabiner and slid down Hyacinthe’s side. Georges knew himself to be no very reassuring sight-- his face nearly black, his hair streaked with gray, a large scar on his forehead which ran down upon his cheek, his figure bowed, bent, prematurely aged, his black leather flying coat much battered-- but he smiled and said in his friendliest accents, “Do not be alarmed, Madame, we are on our way to the breeding grounds at Vernon and wished merely to rest.”

The woman stood on the opposite side of the road, rigid with fear.

“May I see your hatchling?” asked Hyacinthe eagerly. “I have sired many eggs in my day and Georges too has been a sire, though only once, and his only egg was taken from him before it was out of the shell. Is your hatchling friendly?”

The woman was understandably confused as to why an enormous dragon was talking about her child as if her daughter were in fact a dog the dragon wished to pet, but she had grown up during the revolution and empire and was used to dragons. She made a jerky reverence. “I-- she has not been well.”

Hyacinthe leaned down on his front legs, his head on the ground, as a cat stretched. He assured her, eagerly, “Oh, but we mean only to look, then, pray will you allow it? Though,” he added, with a flash of self-consciousness, “I have nearly two centuries to my hide, I cannot move as easily as I once did; you will have to bring the hatchling here.”

The woman approached. Georges was struck by her beauty, apparent even under the patina of dust and exhaustion from her travels..

“I am General Hyacinthe-- or was, if this country had respect for Lien any longer-- and this is my captain, Georges Pontmercy,” said Hyacinthe. He lifted his head so that the gold medal on his harness caught the light.  “He is also a general and he is a baron! And he is the grandson of my first captain. What is the name of your hatchling?”

“I call her Cosette,” said the woman, pausing in the middle of the road.

Hyacinthe put down his enormous head and blinked a pupil the side of a full-sized mirror directly in front of Cosette and her mother. “Indeed! That is a pretty name. And what, pray, is your name?”

Cautiously: “Fantine.”

“Ah, that is prettier! I see your hatchling sleeps. Oh, I fear I have awoken her.”

The child stirred. It was clear Cosette had recently gotten over some bad illness, or else a state of poverty so severe that it made Georges wish to weep, and that Fantine had done her best to hide this fact. Fantine’s gown was well tailored but plain and of cheap cotton; Cosette was wrapped in velvet, which Georges ventured to guess came from an old gown of Fantine’s. When Cosette squirmed in Fantine’s arms, one could see the pretty confection of muslin and ribbons under the velvet wrap. But Cosette herself had a sickly look, her light brown hair thin and scraggling over a pinched face. The only link between this sad creature, whose look and fretful gestures seemed to express only fear, and blonde beauty evidently her mother was the shared color of their eyes. Two sets of blue eyes rested on Hyacinthe, and two sets turned their frightened gazes to Georges.

He felt his shyness creep upon him again. He looked away and rubbed his scar self-consciously. Georges felt it necessary to speak, but had no idea what he ought to say.

“Hello,” said Hyacinthe eagerly. “You are Cosette, are you not?”

Cosette looked over at Hyacinthe and then buried her face against Fantine’s neck.

“She is shy,” said Fantine, unnecessarily.

“I am too,” said Georges. “But you need not fear Hyacinthe. He is big, but he is gentle. He watches over all the eggs at the breeding ground at Vernon.” This and Georges’s smile was enough to make Cosette look fearfully over at Hyacinthe again.

“I wish I had a treat to give you,” said Hyacinthe wistfully. “Ah! I know. Georges, look in your book! Have we the capitol to get her one?”

Georges pulled a small leather notebook from the pocket of his red and black coat. “Yes, my dear, certainly. Madame, will you--” then growing somewhat embarrassed and looking at the book “--that is, if it does not delay your journey too much--”

“Madame Fantine,” interrupted Hyacinthe. “I should like to play with your hatchling, if you will allow it, but she seems tired. Perhaps she will be more amenable after she has eaten?”

“I have no bread,” said Fantine, helplessly.

“Oh but we wish to get her some!” said Hyacinthe brightly. “We are going to Monsieur Shang’s, I hope you will accompany us.”

“I could not impose--”

“It is no imposition!”

“I pray you will allow us this,” said Georges, though he felt greatly embarrassed. He lowered his voice so Hyacinthe could not hear. “I cannot afford many treats for Hyacinthe but this I can. And....” He rubbed his scar. “The truth is, we are too sad to be left to ourselves.”

“Oh?” Fantine eyed him warily.

Georges could not unburden himself. Not before a stranger. He merely looked away.

Fantine looked at the small parcel she had dropped some metres back and ventured, “Is it on the way to Paris? Though I recall we passed an eating house with an Incan dragon before it--”

Cosette shifted in her arms and murmured something about bread. Fantine said, immediately, “Yes, then, if it will not inconvenience you.”

Hyacinthe sat down and stretched out his front paw. “Ride with Georges on my back. It will be easier.”

Fantine shrunk back, still clutching her child. “I-- no, thank you. We will walk.”

Georges offered to walk with her and she nodded. Hyacinthe was tired and took very slow steps, pausing often, but this meant Georges and Fantine did not have to rush. They did not speak at first. Georges was self-conscious. Cosette was asleep. Fantine was weary. She stopped only to pick up her small parcel. Georges offered to carry it, and Fantine accepted this with a murmur.

“I-- ah-- have you come very far?” asked Georges.

Fantine looked at him warily. “Montreuil-sur-mer.”

“You have walked all the way from Montreuil-sur-mer?” asked Georges, in some alarm. “You must be very tired, Madame.”

She lifted a shoulder, a lower class gesture that somehow managed to convey both cynicism and exhaustion, in equal parts.

They soon came upon Monsieur Shang’s restaurant. This was more a series of small pavilions about a central kitchen than an ordinary restaurant. The first pavilion was occupied by a Yunanqui, a middleweight Incan dragon, with green and purple scales that looked more like feathers. She raised her head from a cauldron of roast frog soup with an inquisitive air. Hyacinthe nodded his enormous head and took the pavilion across from her, and the Incan dragon went back to her meal.  

Hyacinthe heaved himself gratefully onto the heated stones and sprawled out, his four legs akimbo, his head facing the central kitchen. A handful of Chinese and Incan and French servers in black robes scurried out with a table and cushions, which they placed near one of the pillars. It pleased Georges to see that they recalled Hyacinthe was deaf in his left ear, for they chose the pillar on Hyacinthe’s right. One of the Chinese men offered Georges a menu and another held up a large slate before Hyacithe’s nose.

“I will have a number six with one cow. What will your hatchling have, Madame Fantine?”

Fantine had sat on the cushion, legs folder under her, had allowed her cloak to be hung on a hook on the pillar (though she refused to remove her cap) and had accepted the cup of green tea, offered her, but she looked blankly at the menu.

“Would you-- would you like me to order for you?” asked Georges. “Not many have dined with dragons--”

“I would be grateful.”

They ate first, as Hyacinthe’s cow was roasted, taking meat and vegetables from a few central bowls and eating these portions over bowls of rice or with flaky slices of bread. Everything that Fantine took, she put in front of Cosette, who sat on her lap. If Cosette ate it, Fantine was inclined to do without, until Georges noticed. Then he left untouched the dishes Fantine seemed to like, declared he would live exclusively on eggplant if he could, and ate the reslishes Cosette ignored.

“It-- ah.” Georges cleared his throat. “What-- if it is not too bold, what made you leave... have you family along this road you mean to visit?”

“I have no family but Cosette.” Fantine smoothed the hair off of Cosette’s forehead. Full, Cosette drowsed again, her head resting on the table.

“Euh. What-- you have left Montreuil-sur-mer....”

“There is no work in Montreuil-sur-mer,” replied Fantine. She pressed her lips together.

Georges floundered for another topic.

Eventually, Fantine said, “Is it true one Chanson-de-Guerre is much like another?”

“They are our most common breed.”

Fantine looked away.

“You have had dealings with dragons?”

Fantine was silent for several minutes. Georges watched Hyacinthe eat his porridge with relish. He always wondered how Hyacinthe could be so delighted with rice porridge, even though the Grand Chevalier had been eating little more than soups and porridge for years. The fighting and starvation rations of the Russian campaign had caused Hyacinthe to lose several of his teeth and shattered several more.  Georges stopped himself from touching his scar, but thought to himself, ‘What an ugly old pair we are!’

Almost at random, Fantine said. “The-- the factory in Montreuil-sur-mer shut down. We made jet beads, but the dragon who delivered to China for us, where the beads were made into jewelry-- he was arrested. He had been pretending to be another dragon than he was. Captain Javert  told us all that one Chanson-de-Guerre was much the same as another, which is why he was not spotted until recently, but this was-- our good Madeleine was part of Madame Lien’s breeding program and was a mix and not meant to-- but he was wanted for escaping his breeding grounds and stealing cows and-- and well! We relied too much on him. There is no factory any longer, there is no work any longer.”

Georges wished there was more he could do than give Fantine and Cosette a meal. “Perhaps you will allow us to take you wherever it is you wish to go.”

“I am going to Paris to look for work,” said Fantine, unwillingly. “The breeding grounds at Vernon are in the opposite direction.”

“I was injured very badly at Waterloo,” said Hyacinthe, raising his head from his giant trough, “but I could easily carry two little slips of humans like you and Cosette to Paris. But perhaps you would care to come to Vernon instead?”

“Is there work at Vernon?” Fantine glanced down at Cosette, still sleeping, “And-- that is, work I could do while still looking after Cosette.”

“Yes, and more healthful air,” opined Georges, albeit timidly. “Aviators and dragons have fallen out of favor since Waterloo. There is always more work than-- than there are people to do the work.”

“Hm,” said Fantine.

The Incan dragon was watching this with interest, and called to Hyacinthe. “My respected elder, will you come share this ice with me?”

Hyacinthe dragged himself over. “Yes, and gladly, but you must call me Hyacinthe.”

“I am Cusi.”

They made their reverences, as a small army of waiters, and a little courier-weight dragon, pushed a bowl the size of a wagon towards them. Hyacinthe darted out a forked tongue and said, pleased, “Plum! I recall this was General Lien’s favorite dessert. Did you know, after the hatching of the Emperor’s egg, she had a banquet for all the officers? It was a great honor to dine with her.”

“Oh I came to Paris in the Sapa Inca’s train, with my detachment of the army, and saw her once!” said Cusi, eagerly. “What a grand dame! And so good to our Empress.”

They chatted over how much they liked Lien (a common topic for any dragon within the French or Incan Empires) until the servers disappeared back into the kitchen.

Cusi cleared her throat significantly.

“Yes?”

“We are not allowed to pick up humans on the road, even if they do not belong to anyone,” murmured Cusi, in a questioning tone.

“Ah yes, that is right,” said Hyacinthe, a little uncomfortably. He buried his head into the plum ice, rooting for the fruits. They were little more on his tongue than the sprinkled sugar on top of a brioche was to a human, but Hyacinthe still enjoyed the little bursts of flavor.

The Incan dragon shook herself out, the silver hoops in her wings clattering. “Well, I cannot blame you. It is a silly rule when you have only the one human.”

“I am so glad you agree,” said Hyacinthe, much relieved. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to simplyirenic for naming the dragon in charge of the breeding grounds at Vernon.

“You must not wear your uniform,” hissed the district attorney, come to deliver half pay to both Hyacinthe and Georges. “You are no longer an aviator sir, your beast is not fit for battle.”

Georges adjusted the faded ribbon of the Legion of Honor attached to his white crossbelts. “I served my country--”

“And the king does not recognize that you are either a baron or an officer of the legion of honor. You must not wear that ribbon.”

Georges directed a look full of mockery at him. “And must I not wear my scar, either?”

Hyacinthe only half heard this conversation. Georges stood deliberately on Hyacinthe’s left side.

On pay days, Hyacinthe liked to have Georges in a full black and red trimmed uniform, with white crossbelts, gold epaulettes and a silver gorget. Hyacinthe then donned his own silver gorget, which, as he told absolutely anyone who asked, had been given to him by Lien herself for valor in battle. This rattled against Hyacinthe’s chest as he turned. “Yes, Georges does look splendid, does he not?”

The Russian campaign had killed off near a third of the French fighting weight dragons, so it was perhaps understandable that the district attorney trembled and went pale at the sight of Hyacinthe’s broken toothed grin. He was new to his post and had possibly never seen a heavy-weight up close. “I... well. Um. All is in order, good day to you.” He nodded at one of the guards and then bolted.

Since Hyacinthe was so big, he had a pavillion to himself, and, since he watched so carefully over the eggs, none of the other dragons grudged him this luxury. Hyacinthe nosed at the box in the back of the pavilion. “You will put the pay in there, will you not? And allow me to see my jewels again.”

One of the several guards that accompanied the district attorney on his rounds sorted through the keys on his ring and opened the box. It was more properly a vault, since it was where Hyacinthe stored his silver gorget most days. Georges went in himself and held out the box of Hyacinthe’s opals.

“Well that is nice,” said Hyacinthe. “Georges, pray look upon our capital and give my the talley when we have paid off our bills for the fortnight.”

This task was completed while one of the guards amused both himself and Hyacinthe by arranging a pattern of opals and Hyacinthe’s one or two sapphires in a mandala. Georges reported the total low into Hyacinthe’s right ear. “Ah! That is better than I had tallied; I had forgotten Bao gave me a present of a gold napoleon for watching her egg. I am willing to go in half on a new suit of dress clothes for you. It pains me to see you coming to the covert in those gray trousers of yours, all stained with dirt.”

“Those are my gardening clothes!” protested Georges. “I cannot help it if you call me away from tending my peonies to look upon the baby dragons playing pick-up-sticks.”

The guard, a Nepalese fellow named Paresh, said, “But, still, it will upset the district attorney less if you were in a green or blue coat than a red and black one.”

“The district attorney can hang, for all I care,” said Georges, shortly.

Paresh was a little taken aback by Georges’s vehemence. And it was no wonder, thought Georges, instantly ashamed of himself. Tashi had only ever seen him gardening or playing with the newly hatched dragonets. This new round with the district attorney was a definite promotion. Paresh changed the subject to the visiting ferals from Turkestan, who were his particular pets. There seemed an indeterminate number of ferals, always in a noisy, snoring heap in their pavillion.

“Ah yes, you came here with the first of their eggs,” said Hyacinthe. “I would have to speak with Yi but she told me she would not be adverse to cross-breeding that pretty blue and white creature to Lung Yu Bao. A Jade Dragon, you know, and she has already given us two eggs with a Papillion Noir.” Hyacinthe looked at the mandala, pleased, and said, “Good. You may put those away, Paresh. Ah, there is the hatchling!”

Cosette came scrambling up the pavillion and flung her little arms around as much of Hyacinthe as she could reach. This amounted to more or less his nostril, but Hyacinthe was very touched by the gesture.

A fortnight of proper feeding and the security of her mother’s presence had quite changed Costte from the frighted little creature she had been. The baby dragons delighted in playing with her, since she was thin and tiny enough to be taken aloft with ease, and Cosette so enjoyed this she often forgot to be afraid. If she was not precisely fearless, yet, she was very affectionate towards beings that would have terrified most men.

“Hyacinthe!”

“And were you good for the schoolmaster this morning?” asked Hyacinthe, dotingly. “Repeat back to me the quadratic equation.”

This was beyond Cosette’s powers, but she blurted out as much as she recalled, and bore Hyacinthe’s corrections patiently.

“I am so sorry,” gasped Fantine, running after Cosette. She was panting, and her progress was considerably slowed by the fact that she did not wish to show anyone her ankles by lifting up her gray skirts and her layers of petticoats. For all her time at the factory, Fantine seemed a grisette at heart. Her two gowns were both gray, and she had the habit of carrying her parcels in shawls. Sewing was as automatic a task to her as flying was to Hyacinthe, and she could sit with Marguerite, the main seamstress for the aviators of Vernon, and chat for hours without having to look down at her stitches. Georges had often found himself absently watching her at her task; the building across the street from his own cottage contained both Fantine’s garret apartment and the cafe where she and Marguerite sewed.

Fantine carefully set down her shawl, and the parcel within, on the edge of the pavillion and tried to climb up to her daughter.

“Allow me,” said Paresh, with an admittedly charming smile.

Fantine was focused on arranging her skirts and only said, “Just a moment-- there.”

Paresh took her by the hand as she mounted Hyacinthe’s foreleg, and said, “I would not trade my job for another, but it is a pleasure to be helping a beauty instead of a beast.” She jerked her hand back as if burned and tumbled backwards.

“Madame Fantine!” said Georges, in considerable alarm.

“Ow!” said Fantine.

“Mama, that was clumsy,” said Cosette.

“Yes,” said Fantine, a little too tightly, a little too brightly. She adjusted the cap half-falling off her head. “Clumsy Mama! That is what comes of being incautious, Cosette, I hope you will learn from my mistakes. Mama makes quite a lot of mistakes.”

The bitterness shading her words was uncomfortably familiar to Georges. He said, hastily, “Allow me to help you down, Mademoiselle Cosette, it is making your Mama uncomfortable to see you up so high without even the benefit of a Tharkay tether.”

“Hyacinthe is too big for a Tharkay tether,” said Cosette, indignantly, but she allowed Georges to help her down.

“Come, we must take the last of the curtains to Hephaestus,” said Fantine. “I am so sorry for intruding, but Cosette--”

“It is always a pleasure to see the hatchling,” protested Hyacinthe. “Shall I watch her for you as you deliver them? I am sure she would like to see the eggs. Georges can show you the right pavillion.”

Fantine was not very worried about leaving her child in the care of a dragon much too large to be threatened, and much too gentle to be threatening. Though she still seemed a little anxious, she murmured her acquiescence. Paresh accompanied them, after locking up Hyacinthe’s vault once again, and this spared Georges the necessity of making much conversation.

However, as they passed the pavillion of feral dragons, Fantine said, hastily, “Are these not your particular charges?” and Georges realized that Fantine was not nervous of Cosette being injured or of the dragons about, but of Paresh’s admiration.

“And there is the district attorney,” said Georges, making a show of bristling.  

Paresh ran over, shouting in the language of the ferals, “No, no, you did not fight in the wars, you do not get half-pay! That is for Hephaestus and he is a Flame-de-Gloire!”

Hephaestus’s pavillion was not far distant and, anyways, he was awkwardly landing on his back feet in the gravel lane that linked all the buildings of the breeding ground. He gave an indignant squawk and shot out a jet of flame.

The ferals tumbled back into their pavilions shrieking that they could not be blamed for not understanding why the sour man did not give them treasure, too.

Hephaestus lowered down to now balance on three legs (his front right leg had been lost to a Longwing acid attack at Waterloo). “When you have been knocked about as the heavy and middleweights were in the wars, then you shall have treasure delivered to you and not before.” He turned and looked anxiously at his captain. “Pauline, it has not much disturbed you, or hurt your head, for my flame to be so bright before your eyes like that?”

“It is no worse than the forge every morning, dear heart,” said Pauline, though she was pale and staggered a bit as she descended. Fantine and Georges ran to support her on either side. “It is when we change altitude suddenly that gives me the worst headaches.”

The spurt of acid that had eaten at Hephaestus’s leg to the bone had also eaten through all the harness straps. Pauline had tumbled headlong onto the field below and now suffered from terrible headaches and seizures. Pauline winced and said, “Ah, and Madame Fantine, it is a pleasure to see you once again. I have been meaning to tell you, it has done my Sylvie such good to have another girl her own age about-- she was dreadfully low when Captain Dupin and her children were sent on to the Paris covert. It gladdens my heart to see her playing again, thought I would wish she and Cosette would be more careful about using their Tharkay tethers when playing with the hatchlings!”

“Thank you,” said Fantine, quite touched. “And-- and Sylvie’s father--”

A little blankly. “What should he have to do with Tharkay tethers?”

Georges helped Pauline to sit on a bench, as Hephaestus wrangled the ferals. Georges cleared his throat in what he hoped was a significant way.

Pauline scratched her cheek, as if to stimulate her thoughts. “Ah... that was not what you meant. Oh yes, Sylvie does have unusual looks, does she not? It’s a running joke that she’s an experimental crossbreed.  I have forgotten his name already, but he was a Japanese fellow who came over with all the others after the Russian campaign. I gave him to understand that Sylvie would grow up to work with dragons and he was much pleased with this. But that is the way to do it, I think, with very little bother to any involved. And Vernon is quite the best place for Sylvie, anyways, for I think in Japan there would be some trouble about her being half a foreigner or being illegitimate, but this close the breeding grounds no one much cares.”

A great weight seemed to have been lifted off Fantine’s shoulders. Her posture was more relaxed, her expression easier.

Georges had guessed as much from the few conversations he had with Fantine, and from Cosette’s artless prattle to Hyacinthe. It took a generally unlauded bravery, thought Georges, as he helped Fantine and Hephaestus put up the new curtain on Hephaestus’s pavillion, to be in Fantine’s position. Outside of the aerial corps, freedoms had shrunk and vanished. For dragons, most noticeably, but for humans, more insidiously.

“These are very fine,” said Hephaestus, pleased. “And fire proof. Do you not think it well made, Pauline?”

“Yes indeed, and they shall nicely keep out the rain,” said Pauline, as the district attorney made a note in his book. “Thank you, and have a good day sir-- ah do but watch your step!”

“And is this the fabric you got from John Wampanoag?” asked an Imperial dragon, very prettily outfitted in a silver headdress with blue crystals, and a silver chain decorated in the same manner. She sat on her haunches before Hephaestus’s pavillion. “That shade of gold harmonizes very nicely with the wood of the pavillion.”

“You have met Lung Qin Yi?” asked Georges, of the district attorney. He evidently had not.

A partisan of Lien’s from the earliest, the forced importation of opium so offended her sensibilities that Yi quit General Chu's service and offered Lien the benefit of her many years experience in the breeding program. It was often (and what was more, correctly) said Lien had Vernon remodeled specifically for Lung Qin Yi. She was as cool and elegant as any grand dame in a Parisian salon and so good at her job, her devotion to Lien and the Empire was never questioned. Georges rather wished she had been present when the district attorney was telling him not to wear a uniform.

The district attorney mumbled a few words, of which ‘pleasure’ and ‘honor’ were almost audible.

“Is it?” asked Yi, politely, her facial tendrils twitching.

The district attorney bowed himself away.

“Strange what a difference six years makes,” said Pauline, sitting down, a little creakily. “Time was when a fellow wouldn’t bat an eye at a middle-weight walking next to him down the Champs-Elysee.”

“Paris ought not to be taken as representative of all France,” said Yi.

“Ah but Yi, come look, now I can now display my treasure in proper style,” interrupted  Hephaestus. “Paresh, if you would?”

Paresh emerged from the vault with a Chinese brush painting, twice the size of himself, in a gold and silver frame quite at odds with the simplicity of the canvas. A handful of brushstrokes served to show Lien in flight, wings outstretched, with two ruby chips for her eyes, and a real diamond at her breast. A handful of courriers waiting on their own half-pay came forward to eagerly admire it.

With a defiant look down the gravel at the district attorney, a Papillon Noir named Floreal proposed, “Three cheers for Lien!”

The huzzahs rang from dragon and aviator alike, and many more came to see Hephaestus’s treasure. Cusi, who was wandering about France until the government granted her plea to return to South America, came from her guest pavillion and said that it was very beautifully done.

“And three cheers for the artist,” added Floreal, grown bold by the presence of three middle-weights.

Yi looked modestly downward as the cheers rang out about her. “Ah, it was only a sketch. I have done many better ones.” But she looked very pleased by everyone’s protests to the contrary, and hung up the portrait above  Hephaestus’s vault herself.  Hyacinthe, with Cosette on his head, even came to look at it.

“Now I call that very fine indeed,” he said, to the now preening  Hephaestus. “I am of a mind to get some curtains myself to keep the rain out, but first I need to get Georges a new coat, for he will never buy one himself.”

“I can sew you a new coat if you will get me the fabric for it,” offered Fantine. “Of if you had old drapes or an old coat-- I am very good at turning old to new. You have seen Cosette’s dresses.”

Georges wished he could have afforded it. He knew Fantine’s finances to be unsettled, and for her income to fluctuate depending on what work could be got from the town. As little as he liked the amount of his half-pay, he at least knew exactly how much he had to live on each month.

“I should certainly like to hire you,” interjected Hyacinthe. If he seized upon this offer with a little too much alacrity, that hinted at some ulterior motive. Georges looked suspiciously up at Hyacinthe. The Grand Chevalier said, with wounded innocence, “You need a new coat. Your everyday coat has been ruined by gardening.”

Cusi was also eager to help in the expansion of Hyacinthe’s allyu. She was able to get some very pretty Incan broadcloth in a light green from the same American dragon who had provided  Hephaestus with the material for his curtains. “John Wampanoag assured me this color was popular in Paris and in New York, and he offered me some nice Chinese silk for waistcoats, but I did not like to commit you to such an outlay without getting your opinion first.”

“With gold buttons I think Georges shall look very fine in this,” said Hyacinthe. Then, noising over the change Cusi had brought him, Hyacinthe said, “Ask if he has any muslin in a similar color.”

“I think it a good thing to have matching colors for an allyu,” agreed Cusi. She returned with some very pretty sprig muslin in a mint green, several shades lighter than the broadcloth. “John was very sorry it was not the same color, so he promised to have some ribbons dyed, for only five sous, so I went ahead and agreed to it for you, and also has given you enough cotton for a new shirt and some for neckcloths as an apology. Cotton is very cheaply gotten in the Americas, these days!”

“John is a very good sort of dragon,” said Hyacinthe, much touched. “When you get the ribbons, pray invite him to the breeding grounds to take coffee with us some morning.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

John Wampanoag was very much desirous of visiting the nursery and came to visit the day after.

“You are most welcome to Vernon,” said Hyacinthe.

“Why and I thank ‘ee for the invitation,” said Wampanoag in his broadly accented French. He was a smallish brown dragon, with strange markings up and down his legs, and a very shrewd, direct gaze. “I have been hearing about the nursery of Vernon--” eyeing the building to the right of Hyacinthe’s pavillion “--as one of the best in Europe.”

Wampanoag wore a sort of shirt made of gold mesh, with many woollen pockets attached to it, and from one pocket he brought forth a spool of ribbon. “As promised, sir!”

“My very many thanks, sir,” said Hyacinthe politely, and he sent Cosette over to take it. She was quite fascinated to see a dragon in a waistcoat and asked if she might be allowed to ride in one of his pockets.

“You will not find it very comfortable!” said Wampanoag. “There is usually something in every one.”

Cosette was disappointed by this, but as the small herd of newly hatched Poux-de-Ciels then ran by beseeching her to play with them, she was easily consoled.

Wampanoag chose to see the nursery before they had their coffee and Hyacinthe did so proudly. The nursery was an enormous structure, built in the mixed French and Chinese style that was the hallmark of Lien-ization in Paris. Wampanoag was loud in his approval of the enormous double doors everywhere and the clever arrangement of the hot water pipes around the eggs.

“And you like to have them in sunlight when the weather’s fine, I see,” said Wampanoag, and he looked at the bamboo mats the handlers were letting down over the huge windows. “No glass?”

“No, we like to have some air going round the egg.”

“I imagine it gets very damp when it rains, though.”

“A little, but they had glass in a nursery in Toulon and one of the hatchlings tried to fly out and the glass slivers....” Hyacinthe shook his head.

“Hm.” Wampanoag allowed himself to be taken over to the heated bathing pool, warmed by the same furnace used for the eggs, but declined taking a soak. He did not mind if Hyacinthe did so, however, and was happy to have coffee and chat with him there. This suited Hyacinthe too, for his legs were always hurting and it helped him to either float of lay on the ground for most of the day. Wampanoag questioned Hyacinthe very particularly on the running of the nursery, the tutors they brought in to read to the eggs in different languages, the necessity of keeping the nursery specific temperatures, and Hyacinthe’s learnt ability to determine when an egg was ready to hatch.

“So I imagine you have quite a few dragons hoping to leave their eggs here.”

“Yes, for it reassures people to have a big veteran stationed before the nursery.” Hyacinthe chuckled to himself. “And in the past five years, I have learnt amazingly how to predict when an egg is a week from hatching, so the parents have time to come see the hatching if they like.”

“I wonder, sir, if you would be inclined to try some of the curtains I saw on  Hephaestus’s pavillion.”

“Yes, he raves of them.”

“I could make you a present of the fabric,” offered Wampanoag, taking some out of one of his pockets, “and if you like them, perhaps you might consider being a spokesdragon for it.”

“A spokesdragon?” asked Hyacinthe, with some misgivings.

“Why yes, sir, I am finding it near impossible to sell to Incan dragons or French emigrees unless they know another dragon who has used a product, and though my name is trusted enough in the United States, it is not so much in South America. So you can fairly see my business relies on having a trusted fellow like yourself reassure everyone that they will not be cheated.”

Hyacinthe nosed at the gold fabric. “And this is the same fabric you sold to  Hephaestus?”

“Indeed it is sir!”

“Well,” said Hyacinthe, a little dubious about this foray into marketing, “at present our seamstress is making my captain a new coat, but I shall ask her to make some curtains for the nursery pavillion when she has finished.”

“You will find them much better against the elements than those bamboo shutters you have been using,” said Wampanoag. “No rain to come through and no chance of a shutter catching fire from a brazier in the winters. But, I understand, you will not wish to affix your name to a product you have not yet tried.”

“Well, that and I would wish to consult Lung Quin Yi about it first.”

But Yi proved amenable to this. She was justifiably proud of the breeding grounds and nursery, and did not mind having this fact broadcasted to dragons all over the world. “And that way our comrades banished to the Andes will know their eggs and hatchlings are in good hands,” said Yi. “I will pay Fantine and Marguerite myself to have the curtains made. If we like them, I see no reason why you cannot take out ads in every newspaper saying that they are used at the breeding grounds of Vernon, and that General Hyacinthe particularly recommends their use.”

“Thank ‘ee ma’am, I could not have asked for a fairer bargain,” said Wampanoag, touching a claw to his forehead. “And I have been authorized by my partners to offer you both payment for the use of your names.”

He and Yi haggled good-naturedly over this until arriving at a percentage they found fair. Hyacinthe was a little surprised that his name should be worth so much, and said, “That is extraordinarily generous of you-- I beg you will come be our guests again another time, sir.”

“Call me John,” said the brown dragon, heartily. “Vernon seems a pleasant town, particularly for dragons.”

“I think it so,” said Yi, proudly. “The town’s industry relies mostly on the breeding grounds. If we could get more men, the fields father out of town would be more productive, but the Poux-de-Ciels and some of the smaller Russian emigrees tend the land well enough. And our theatre is open air and so closed at present, but we attract the talent of Paris. I pray you will be my guest next month, for the opening opera, Fidelio.”

“Say, and don’t that feature a singing part for a dragon?” asked John, roused to real interest. “By that dun-dun-dun-dun fella.”

“Yes, Beethoven. It is based on a Chinese legend, of a woman who disguised herself as a man to fight in the Chinese army and by her actions caused the Emperor to allow women to fight, but Beethoven was not... scrupulous in his research. Still, it is very good music, and a Papillon Noir Jade Dragon mix from our own breeding grounds will be singing the role of that Fidelio’s dragon.”

Hyacinthe filled in Georges that afternoon saying, “Well and I cannot mind it, for if we had more capital, we might have enough to bring Marius back to us.”

Georges covered his eyes with a dirt stained hand.

“We might as well hope,” said Hyacinthe, nosing Georges’s shoulder. “And even if it is not enough to buy an annuity, it might be enough for a respectable holiday at the seashore. Your father-in-law cannot disagree to his spending a se’ennight with us in Brittany.”

Georges, weeping a little, put his arms around Hyacinthe’s snout. Hope was almost more painful than reality.

The possibility of having Marius with him for a week-- a whole, glorious week!-- occupied his thoughts. He found himself often smiling and gazing out into the middle distance, thinking to himself, ‘And I am sure Marius cannot swim, I shall teach him’ or ‘I shall make sure Marius has his own room, facing the ocean’ and imagining all the walks they’d take and the meals they’d share.

A “General Pontmercy!” intruded into into his reverie.

Marguerite and Fantine had caught him gazing absently in their direction. Georges was deeply embarrassed and abandoned all the flower beds by the gravel paths to run to the lily pond. Hyacinthe had saved a Japanese dragon at Waterloo, before he had been thrown down by the divine wind, and, in gratitude, the Japanese dragon had nicely landscaped Georges’s plot of land. A stream split off from the Seine through his garden, and the dragon had widened it and made a pool, and even gotten some of her crew to build a bridge over it. George went to one of the weeping willows he had planted, and began inspecting the branches.

“There you are,” said Marguerite, matter-of-factly, as she came over the bridge. “There is no need to hide yourself all the way back here.”

Georges looked longingly over his shoulder. Hyacinthe’s pavillion, and the larger building of the nursery, was but a five minute walk along the stream.

“We were only looking to see if you would split a pot of coffee with us,” said Marguerite. “It is not very expensive if split among three people, and it can last half the morning if you ask to take it with milk. They never charge you for more milk.”

Though they were approaching spring, the air was still crisp. Georges began to think longingly of coffee.

“Madame Yee is a good sort and does not charge us to sit out front with a cup of tea all day, since no one comes to an empty cafe, but it does please her when we order something more expensive.”

“I am all over dirt,” said Georges, uncertainly.

Marguerite looked pointedly at the lily pond.

“Oh, er.”

“And Fantine wished to try the hang of your new coat, but it is nearly time for the school to break for lunch, and she does not like to be out of sight of the schoolhouse.”

Georges could well understand her concerns. He tidied himself as best he could, and put on a new shirt for the occasion. Marguerite thoughtfully provided Georges with a barred newspaper to fuss with, so that he had would not have to make conversation, but he was too excited about the possibility of seeing Marius to be nervous about speaking.

“I have only seen him from above since 1815,” said Georges, as Fantine pinned a sleeve onto the coat. Everything seemed to carry with it a frisson of excitement. The taste of the coffee had made his heart race, Fantine’s gentle hand on his shoulder was as pleasant as if she were resting it there for the duration of a waltz, the sun was certainly warmer than it had been yesterday. “I would-- certainly I do not think his grandfather would disagree to a little week--”

“He could have no grounds for objecting,” agreed Marguerite, finishing the hem of the shirt she was working on. “Vernon is hardly a pit of libertinage, but people do go on about aviators. If you pick somewhere very dull and respectable....”

Georges heart swelled within his breast, and he had no other outlet than compliments to Fantine’s work and then, when Cosette flew over from the schoolhouse, compliments to Cosette’s ability to recite one through ten in Mandarin.

When Marguerite left to deliver the finished shirt, Fantine asked, tentatively, if he was often very distracted and upset at Marius’s absence.

“I was separated from Cosette for a time,” Fantine explained, her anxious gaze resting upon her child, playing a skipping game with Sylvie,  “and it upset me dreadfully, but I shall not-- never again. No one can care for one’s child like oneself.” Then, realizing the implications of her speech, she stammered, “That is not-- that is-- I did not mean--”

Georges looked into the depths of his coffee cup. “No, I quite understand you. But, at the time, I was in no position to protest.”

Fantine had returned to her sewing, her needle flashing in and out of the blue-green cloth like a minnow in a stream. “Where is your son normally?”

“Paris, with his grandfather.” Georges knew more was required of him, but a powerful self-consciousness stilled his tongue. He made a great effort to overcome it. “That is-- in... I was injured at Waterloo.” He rubbed at his scar. “I was made a general there, but I thanked the Emperor in the name of my widow.  Hyacinthe and I were knocked out of the air. You must have heard of Temeraire?” Fantine nodded. “We always thought him a Jacobin, and Lien attacked him.... He did something to the air. The Petit- Chevalier next to us took the brunt of it and her eyes popped from her head. Hyacinthe was merely stunned. As was I. He tried to protect me by hiding me in the coils of his tail. We were not-- we were assumed dead until Hyacinthe managed to crawl to a surgeon. My wife died before I could return. Her father took my son into custody. He always looked down upon me for being an aviator. He disliked all the changes to Paris Lien instituted.”

Georges knew he had spoken too much. That was always the way with him in company, why he erred on saying too little.

“He did not like his grandson becoming an aviator?” asked Fantine.

Georges shook his head. “And Hyacinthe and I are on half-pay. We can afford his feed only because he is of use in the breeding grounds.”

“Was your father-in-law...?”

Georges rubbed his right thumb against his forefinger and middle finger, to indicate wealth. Fantine nodded. Then, shyly, her head bent, her eyes fixed upon her work, she murmured, “I would have done the same.”

 


End file.
